


And Death Said, Let There Be Light

by Inferification



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean working out who he is, Death!Dean, M/M, Panic Attacks, Self Confidence Issues, Torture, don't read this for deancas, horseman!Dean, kinda a mix of those, literally happens right at the beginning, reaper!dean, that's a long way off, the major character death is offscreen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-26
Updated: 2014-09-01
Packaged: 2018-01-13 21:46:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1241779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inferification/pseuds/Inferification
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester is dead. And this time it's permanent. Neither Heaven or Hell want the risk of accepting his soul, so Death decides to make Dean one of his.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It’s a simple matter really: the death of Dean Winchester. Or as simple as any human death can be. A man bearing the Mark of Cain, possessed by the last remaining Knight of Hell, stabs himself with the First Blade to prevent any harm befalling yet another at his hand. Some would call it a noble or glorious sacrifice. All Death can see is a waste. The man known as Dean Winchester had a soul so bright it outshone the sun on a midsummer’s day. Not being one to lightly comment on the brilliance of the human soul, or comment at all, Death almost felt a pang of regret that Dean Winchester had finally succumbed to His own embrace. Neither Heaven, nor Hell, nor Purgatory or the multiple traumas and abuse inflicted on the man had broken him. Even the ones committed by those he loved. Not completely.

Death had heard that the so called Righteous Man had broken in Hell. He could see no difference in the soul. Scarred? Yes. More wary? Yes. Tortured? Literally. But as of that moment, no other soul had survived with so much of the original brilliance and personality intact. Death was, even now, sure that if the soul had been given time to heal as it should have, it would have healed itself more completely than what the Angel of the Lord, Castiel had been able to achieve. And yet, even under immense pressure, this man had survived.

The man was now broken.

Of that Death was sure. He had been pushed too far and had finally made a catastrophic series of errors that had resulted in his death. It could have been so easily averted and so many opportunities had presented themselves over the years since Mary Winchester had died. A minute here, an altered decision there could have prevented this. But the man known as Dean Winchester had never _once_ taken the easy route. It was frustrating.

The soul of Dean Winchester was still burning as before, but there was now a deep rent in the soul. Fixable, to a creature such as Death, but usually, if at all, a broken soul could only be fixed by the efforts of itself. And Death very much wanted to see if Dean Winchester would be successful.

Now Death had a complicated problem to solve. What to do with Dean Winchester? The man in question was standing in front of him. And even broken, he had lost none of his caustic nature.

“If I’d known Death himself was taking me to Hell I’d have brought a Philly Cheese Steak or something.”

It never ceased to amaze Death how irreverent this human was. “Believe me, if you were destined for Hell your offering would not have saved you.” He allowed time for his revelation to settle in, hiding his amusement as shock rippled across the human’s soul.

“No. I belong in _Hell_. I deserve it.”

Now that was a surprise. It wasn't everyday he had to convince a soul they weren't destined for The Pit.

“Really Dean? Attempting to convince me I'm wrong now, are you? You, who have suffered Hell believing you deserve it? You are not one of the damned Dean. Nor,” he said, preventing Dean from interrupting, “Are you welcome in Heaven. Both Heaven and Hell seem to believe you would be far too much trouble to make it worth their while. And Purgatory is built for monsters, which you, despite your convictions, are not.”

Dean blinked in confusion. “So let me get this straight? I’m too much trouble for _anyone_ to have around. Heaven, Hell, Purgatory, Earth. Nobody wants…” Dean cut himself off abruptly, but Death caught the soul-deep flicker of pain.

“And so you see my problem, Dean. Where to put you? Of course, I could place you in one of the three realms, but the inhabitants would rather rapidly resurrect you, and it is truly your time to die.”

Dean huffed out a pained laugh. “So the other times were just a warm-up. I’ve gotta be the first guy to fuck-up that badly.”

“You are a unique case. Luckily I have a solution, of sorts.”

“Lay it on me.” The man seemed resigned to the worst. And, granted, his experiences had taught him so, but Death couldn’t supress an eye-roll.

“You remain here. Between worlds. Not as a ghost, Dean. That would merely delay the inevitable.” He sighed. Reading human minds could be irritating. “You would remain as a Reaper. One of my personnel. Obviously not as a true reaper. You’d be far more like me. More powerful, more creative. Have more free will.”

“Like a rogue reaper?”

“Please, Dean. As if any of my own are truly rogue. You’d be unique. Be able to help those who called upon you. Truly empathetic to humans. Some souls are too stubborn to cross over without a bit of a push. Reapers are too passive for that. You’d be far closer to a Horseman.”

“So I'm remaining here. I'm guessing there aren't any alternatives?”

“Destruction. Pure and utter annihilation. Of course, with a soul like yours it would probably take out a small portion of this galaxy as well.”

Dean seemed stunned into silence for a minute. How novel. “What the hell do you mean by a ‘soul like mine’?”

Death hadn't meant to let that slip. “I'm referring, of course, to the fact that I've yet to come across a soul that shines as brightly as yours.”

Dean laughed. But it was the bitter twisted variation that would, at one time, have irked Death, but now made him angry at the world that had brought the man so far down that he _truly_ believed he belonged in Hell. “My soul. The things I've done.” He paused, swallowing the bile that had made an appearance as soon as he thought about Sam, Kevin, Cas, Hell. The people he had failed. “My soul has to be one of the most tattered, tarnished, worthless souls you have ever come across.”

The belief was soul deep. And it chilled Death to the bone. For the first time he wondered how exactly Dean had come to be like this. The last time he had seen the human the belief in his own insignificance and worthlessness had been deeply ingrained, but with a small chance of reversal. Had Dean allowed himself any lenience; had one of his friends outside of his brother and the angel remained in his vicinity, Dean Winchester would have been saved. Not that the blame rested with the man known as Sam Winchester or the Angel of the Lord. But they were too caught up with their own problems, and too used to Dean ‘dealing’ with his own to notice how far Dean had spiralled until it was too late. Too focused on trying to teach Dean about the things he had done wrong. Dean had always prioritised others above himself, so his own problems had never been worked through. Never resolved.

“I do not lie, Dean. As insignificant as you appear to a being such as myself, your soul has always been brighter than any other I have seen. If you accept my offer, you will see for yourself.”

“I don’t see another way.”

“Dean. There will be consequences. There will be consequences, but your soul will remain unchanged. I would also stipulate that you will have to answer to me, but I know how futile that would be in your case.”

“I… I'll still do it. But… Could you, maybe, get word to Sam and Cas. Say I'm sorry. And not to try and resurrect me.”

“Tell Castiel yourself. He is an Angel of the Lord. You will be able to interact with him. Although I recommend limiting contact with your brother through him.”

“Is Sam gonna get tossed from Heaven when he passes?”

Of course that’s what Dean would be most concerned with. “Sam’s place in Heaven is not disputed. He would not be cast out. Though he caused many problems, he has never killed an angel. Nor does he show such irreverence for them.”

“Hit me with it then.”

Death reached out towards Dean’s head with two fingers, aware of the tiny flinch before they connected, and began.

***

Pain. Fire. Ripping, tearing, cleaving, splitting, cracking, burning. Noise. There was a noise. Something was screaming. Someone. Him. He was screaming. Darkness.

***

Dean Winchester flew from the motel bed and immediately toppled over. Something was wrong. The world was too bright and too dark and too loud and too there. He closed his eyes but he could still feel everything. The beating of his heart, his wild breaths, he was sure he could smell day-old sweat and panic. A woman outside was talking on the phone. Her coronary artery was almost completely blocked, but she was going to die in around five minutes time anyway. Stabbed by a mugger who wanted her phone. He focused on her. Things calmed. The world became _less_.

“Dean Winchester.”

A voice. Not his. Someone else’s. He knew that voice. Death. It came to him suddenly, and he lost his grip on the woman becoming lost in the chaos of his own head.

There were hands on him. Soft warm hands. They tickled. Wait. What? Feathers. There were wings wrapped around him. He could focus on that. They were a comfort he didn't deserve, but he couldn't force himself to push them away. As he focused on the feathers he started to realise that he could not only feel the feathers but could also feel pressure from somewhere there shouldn't be pressure. There was something very wrong.

He lost control of his thoughts again, falling, tumultuous through impressions and feelings. He curled in on himself, hands over his ears, but the feathers came with him, surrounding him and wrapping him in a warmth that was inexplicably comforting.

“Dean?”

New voice. Different voice. Memories of a different time. She was nice. A little cold. Tessa. Reaper. Was he _dead_? His breath sped up until it was coming in short gasps. He scrambled back from the voice until his back hit the wall of the room. He focused on his panic. Coiled it into a shield and used it to ground himself in the here and now.

His eyes opened. Motel room. Red. And blood. So much blood. And he remembered. Death had come to him and said he was to remain. There were so many new sensations. But he did what he had been doing since four years old. He took everything he was feeling and let it flow through him. He mentally sorted through the important things: sight, sound, vocals and put them in his focus. Feelings and sensations, the sense of unease, the bitter taste of his panic; he pushed them aside where he could deal with them later. If he had time.

He enveloped himself in a sense of detachment. Used fear to fuel his actions, but didn't allow himself to feel. Everything was different. He could track every dust particle, every molecule through the air. He could feel the weight of the air on his shoulders. Could taste the scent of sweat-fear-panic that layered the room’s natural lemon-clean smell. He could feel Tessa.

She didn't look like her human-guise. Or even her grim-reaper-esque form. She wasn't human. She didn't even have a bipedal form. She was shining but the same way diamonds shone. Like what he was seeing didn't reflect the true nature of her being. Instead, she felt cold. And there was a terrible _pull_ towards her.

“So, the term ‘death’s embrace’ was more literal than I was thinking.”

“Dean? Can you stand?”

He pushed himself up, but he felt heavy. There was an extra pull from his shoulders. The feathers had removed themselves from where they had enfolded him. He used the wall to push himself into a standing position. His balance was off and there was a pull towards the ground he hadn't had before waking in the hotel room.

“Dean Winchester. As promised.” Death spoke this time.

He caught a look of himself in the mirror and almost fainted. He had wings. Huge-ass awesome wings. White with streaks of gold, silver and black running through them. And a strange, almost ugly red line. He waited for panic to engulf him, but it never came. Having wings was ten shades of kick-ass.

“Dude. When you said there’d be a cost I wasn't thinking _wings_.”

“Of course you wouldn't. There was no possible way for you to have known.”

“Why are they so…” Dean searched for the words. “…glowy?” And they were. Not in the strictest sense. He had a horrible feeling that it was due to his newly enhanced senses, but he pushed away the thought before it could take root.

“Your wings are the manifestation of your soul. And a show of your new status.”

Dean laughed. “Now I know you’re lying. There should be more than a little taint there.”

“Must I always remind you that I have no interest in lying, Dean?”

“Oh forgive me if I don’t take people’s words for the truth anymore!” Dean snapped. He realised what he had said and who he to and was suddenly surrounded by feathers.

“Fuck! How do you control these things?”

There was soft laughter coming from Tessa. “What? You’re adorable when you’re flustered?” she said in response to his glare.

“I'm leaving you with Tessa for now. She can help you with your sudden new abilities. I will be back to check on your progress.”

He found himself nodding. Death had things to do. At least Tessa was a familiar face. Although face had taken on a whole new meaning now he could see her true form. Training was nothing new. He needed to control himself before he did something stupid and got people killed.

“Okay,” Tessa said, “First things first, let the world in.”

It was then that Dean realised that this was the first step to the rest of his existence. No Paradise for him, no Hell, just free will. He let himself smile for the first time in a long time.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Dean reaps his first soul, Tessa comes to a realisation. The two of them forge an agreement to try and help Dean out.

Dean reaped his first soul on a sunny Wednesday afternoon. He’s out in the middle-of-nowhere, Maine. Franklin County, to be precise. A family living deep in the mountains suffered a devastating loss as little Emma, the youngest, wandered off. She was headed to the local river to watch the water, and never returned. Her body will never be recovered from where it rests, caught and trapped under the water.

The girl is scared. Beautiful, with her blonde hair and big brown eyes, but terrified none the less. Dean felt his wings ripple with nervousness, relieved that only Tessa would understand what the movement signified. 

The girl, Emma, he forced himself to think, had obviously been crying, her eyes red-rimmed and cheeks tear-stained. He attempted to smile, face aching with the effort of moving muscles after so long. Muscles that weren't even _real_ , he reminded himself. He dropped to a crouch in front of her, slowly, so he didn't startle the girl that was nothing but a reminder of the child he had lost.

“Hey,” he said, his voice low and gentle, “I'm Dean. What's your name sweetheart?” He already knew, of course, but he needed this girl to trust him.

“Emma.” Her voice shook, whilst her eyes darted around, looking anywhere but at him.

“That’s a lovely name Emma. Do you know what happened to you?”

“I…” she paused, head tilted to the side. “Are you an angel?”

“No, I'm just me.” Tessa hadn't been forthcoming about what Death had done to him, remaining tight-lipped but giving him any and all information he needed about his new abilities.

Emma’s brow furrowed as she took in the new information. “But you have wings. And only angels have wings.”

“It's…” Dean swallowed, and suppressed the urge to reach out for Tessa. “I'm not an angel. But I do know a few. I haven't always had wings.” He wiped his clammy hands on his jeans.

“Oh. So maybe your angel friends gave you a surprise?” she asked.

“Yeah. Like that.” He let out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding. “But right now I need you to tell me what happened to you? Do you think you can do that sweetie?”

Emma shook her head violently, backing away from him. “No.”

“Why's that then?” He kept his voice even.

“Don’t _wanna_ say nothing.” To his horror, tears began to well up in Emma's eyes, threatening to spill.

“It’s okay!” he said quickly, “You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.”

“Good, 'cos I don't!” she yelled, her hands balled into fists.

“Okay, okay.” He raised his arms in a defensive gesture. “How about I tell you a story then?”

“Fine.” Dean had to suppress a grin at that. Emma didn't want to give him any ground to stand on. He could see her soul, small and underdeveloped, flickering in her chest.

“Okay, um, this story starts. Um.” He shifted, moving to sit cross-legged on the side of the riverbank and closing his eyes. “Well. There was a little girl, about your age. And she was a very good little girl. Minded her mother, said her prayers and never hurt anyone on purpose. But sometimes she liked to go down to the river running out in their back-yard, even though her mom told her not to. Because, you see, this little girl couldn't be perfect _all_ the time. Even though she wanted to be. She was just a kid, and the river was all pretty and sparkling.” He felt a weight settle into his lap, and he eyes sprung open. Emma apparently was a cuddler when someone told her a story. He curled his arm around her, carding his fingers through her hair and continued.

“She spent her time watching the water. And playing along the riverbank. But one time it had been raining the night before. And the bank was all wet and slippery. And the little girl slipped and fell into the water. She was screaming and crying. And tried to swim. But the water was too strong. She got pulled under. And then...”

“Shut up! Shut up, shut up shut up shut up.” Emma struggled in his arms, tears pouring down her cheeks. He just held tighter, his wings came up involuntarily to surround them as he continued.

“She hit the bottom of the river, and got pulled along. And then she hit a tree root. Everything went fuzzy and black. The water was very cold. She opened her mouth, but water came in. And she couldn't breathe. She died, Emma.”

“I don’t like this story.” Emma whimpered. “Make it stop.”

“I'm so sorry, honey.” He took in a great gulp of air, and barely suppressed a sob, chest heaving with the effort. “It wasn't her fault. Wasn't anybody’s fault. But,” He positioned the little girl so that she had to look him in the eye. “She died, Emma. You died. And you need to come with me now.”

He held the little girl in his arms until the sun began to set. He soothed her as she cried. And, eventually, when she asked him, he carried her soul into heaven.

***

He landed heavily in the abandoned cabin he was using as a base. Sure, no one could see or tough him so he could live somewhere nicer, but this was his own space. And now he was going to use that.

“Go away Tessa.”

“That was polite Dean.”

“Seriously Tessa. Go. _Away_.” He walked away from her, running a hand through his hair. He realised he was heading straight for a wall and stopped abruptly.

“Ever feel like hitting your head against a brick wall, Dean?”

He spun and turned to face her, his hands shaking slightly. “Shut up, and yes. Like _now_.”

“I'm not leaving you alone, Dean. I know how hard that was for you.”

“It wasn't…” The little girl, Emma. Like his own daughter. Blonde hair, brown eyes. So scared. “I just want to be alone.” He snapped.

“And I've already told you that that isn't happening, Dean. You're not in the best state of mind…”

Dean was horrified to hear a disembodied, hysterical giggle force its way out from between his lips. He couldn't do this.

“The first time is always the hardest.”

“It wasn't like losing your fucking _virginity_ , Tessa.”

“I didn't say it was, Dean.” She reached out for him, but he shied away from the vaguely comforting touch.

“This was far worse. She. God. She…” He took a huge heaving breath, trying to calm himself. “She was a _child_. She did nothing wrong, and she died. She was in my arms Tessa. And it was like I killed her myself. I couldn't... She didn't deserve to _die_.” His voice cracked as he slumped against the wall, hands running through his hair.

He hated this. Since his soul was manifested in his wings he couldn't hide his emotions as well as he usually could. His fucking _wings_ telegraphed them to the world. And Tessa could read him. It had taken him weeks to give up on lying to her. Avoidance was key. And he wasn't even being allowed that.

The useless things came up and enveloped him, shielding him from Tessa as he gave a shuddering sob. “She was my daughter.” It was like the flood-gates had been opened as he curled up into a ball, trembling. His daughter had been killed in front of him.

He started when he felt the touch of a warm hand on his wing. Tessa wasted no time, enveloping him in her, thankfully for the moment, human arms.

“I'm so sorry, Dean. I didn't know you had a child. Children are usually easier to reap. I didn't think.” She cradled him gently in her arms, waiting until he fell asleep, worn-out with grief.

To be honest, she had been waiting for something like this. He'd taken to reaping so easily, mastering most of the powers reapers possessed within a few weeks. And not once had he freaked out about becoming one of the things he used to hunt. He had been focused and, as she now realised, throwing himself into work in an attempt at avoiding the situation.

And yet he had been doing so well. His handling of the girl had been instinctive and masterful and she was impressed that he hadn't resorted to lying to get her to come with him. He had learnt after his brief stint as Death. Over the past few weeks she had started to forget that he was still human at heart. With a soul that was broken. That was _her_ mistake.

***

When Dean awoke, and that was weird for him after not sleeping for so long, he was alone. He stretched and vowed never to sleep in that position again. His wings were shedding feathers, and they looked less, he searched for the right word, _healthy_. His feathers were bedraggled and messy, and he hadn't learnt how to materialise them yet so didn't have a clue how to clean them. They had lost their glossy shine. He could touch them himself, but they passed through the corporeal world as if it wasn't there, so a shower wasn't an option. It had really messed with his head the first few times he noticed that not even rain hit his wings.

He flexed them experimentally, letting out a soft moan as the kinks from sleeping on them were worked out. Tessa was right when she said he shouldn't be alone. As long as he was training he was fine. As soon as he stopped he couldn't stop his thoughts. He thought of Sammy. And of Cas. Were they okay? Did they know he was dead? He had left his body in a motel room and he had his real ID on him, so he assumed yes. He hoped they didn't blame him.

It was in these moments of quiet and darkness that he realised how much he had fucked up. He had rushed in without a thought in the world and got himself killed. And now Sam had to deal with the _mess_ he had created. And now he'd done it _again_! Rushed in without thinking. He was just as stupid as everyone had said he was when he was growing up.

There was a sudden crash from behind him, and he spun just in time to realise he had lashed out with his mind and broken a lamp. And wasn't that just like him? Breaking everything good in his life and poisoning it with his very presence.

He sank onto the bed, burying his head in his hands. Tessa had been right. Sam had been right. He didn't want to be left alone. He wanted so desperately to see Sam. Even Cas. But he couldn't. He was a _monster_. Some kind of weird hybrid _thing_. Like the Jefferson Starships, and he didn't trust himself not to screw up. But if they tried to resurrect him… Nah. That wouldn't happen. Sam had said he wouldn't save him.

He was so deep into his own thoughts that he missed the pull of Tessa’s presence when she appeared. “Dean?” she asked, “Are you okay?”

His wings snapped up in shock, and as he’s made an aborted movement to stand up, he found himself catapulted onto the floor, much to Tessa’s amusement.

“Still having problems then?”

“No. I totally _meant_ to throw myself at your feet just then.” He shot back, climbing gingerly to his feet.

Tessa’s presence warmed, and he knew she would be smiling if she was in her human form. “Cute, Dean. That’s very sweet. But you’re avoiding my question.”

He sighed gently and looked away from her. “'m fine.” Yeah. Because his wings were really going to back up that statement. He rolled his eyes as wings wrapped around him comfortingly. And seriously? What was it with his wings and the touchy-feely crap. He wasn't going to start sharing and caring just because his soul said so.

“Yeah. Sure. You don’t have to tell me anything.”

“Good. Because I'm not doing any of that crap. Let’s just get on with it.”

“Great, because today we’re doing wing control. So let’s just hope your soul is going to cooperate. You’re obviously on a nice even, emotional keel right now.”

“I… Dammit.” He said. “You know that’s not going to happen, Tessa. These things have my emotions on speed dial.” And to prove his point the things on his back snapped up, betraying his irritation.

“Precisely. You've got so much emotion locked up, a lot of which is directed at those wings, considering that they’re a physical reminder of everything at the moment that it’s going to be impossible for you to control them without letting go a little bit.”

“Please Tessa. You don't need my crap on you as well. I’ll do it on my own.” He tried.

“Nope. I've been waiting for weeks for you to start, but you haven't. And left up to you, you never would. But Death has given me a task and I'm going to _do_ it. Even if it means forcing you to get your head out of your ass and admit you have feelings.” She snapped.

“Wow. Okay, okay, don’t get your panties in a twist. If you need to play Dr. Phil, I won’t stop you. Don’t get into trouble on my account.”

“Good.” Tessa said. “Because avoiding everything clearly hasn't been working as well as you thought it would, if last night was anything to go by.”

Dean felt his cheeks heat in embarrassment, and his wings fluttered nervously. “Um. Yeah. Sorry about that. Didn't mean to lose it like that.”

“And that's exactly my point. You're allowed to have emotions, Dean! You just sent a young child to heaven who was a direct link with someone you lost. Of course you’re going to be upset!”

“Damn. That’s the nicest thing anyone's said to me in a long time.” He said, attempting to brush over how much it had touched him. It didn't matter that they weren't true. He didn't deserve to burden people with his problems. Have them share the weight. Tessa was probably just saying that so she could get back to reaping instead of babysitting him.

“And there you go. Avoidance. We don't need to get everything sorted in your head, but we need to get you functioning on an emotional level. I mean, if we tried to sort out all your problems it would take several thousand years.” Dean snorted at that. “And then you could go off and do whatever you want instead of me hanging over your head.”

That... That actually sounded good. He could get his head on straight and then he could go off and do what he wanted? Kind of like a goal to work towards. That he could do. “Fine. Tell me what you want me to do.”

“I’d like you to contact Castiel.”

Dean felt his mind go blank and heard a rushing in his ears. Not that. Anything but connecting with his old life. He had got out to _save_ them. Not drag them back. But he needed to do this to get his freedom. He had work to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long to get up, university hit me in the face. I'll try to get another chapter up in the next two weeks, but I have exams after the break so it could be a bit of time.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Castiel talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two weeks she said. Yup. Two months for this. Sorry. Real life happened. But from now on I'm pretty much free, so there should be more consistent updates.

Dean was terrified. There was no other word to describe it. And he couldn't lie to himself. Not this time. He thought of the other occasions he had upset Castiel. And he knew he wasn't being fair. Especially with the whole mind control thing, but he couldn't help but think of the pain he usually had to go through to satisfy him, even if he did deserve it. At least Cas would touch him like he was worth something before he left.

The strain of preventing his wings from cocooning him protectively was causing him physical pain and as a result they were wracked with barely noticeable tremors. Barely noticeable. When you spend a solid month with a person learning how function as a being, they tended to be able to pick up on your most subtle of tells.

“Dean. If you don’t want to do this, you don’t have to. I know I pushed you pretty hard, but seriously. If you’re…”

“I'm fine.” He snapped.

Tessa rolled her eyes and raised her hands in a defensive gesture. “Sure, Dean. And don’t be scared, I’ll stop the big bad angel if he picks on you.”

Dean let out a pained huff of laughter. “He doesn't tend to listen until you’re pretty much beat, so good luck with that.”

“Please. As if an angel would challenge me, Dean.”

“I don’t know. If a _demon_ can wear you as a meat-suit, who’s to say what an angel could do?”

He knew he was baiting her, was waiting for her to get bored of his bullshit, his pathetic neediness, to work out that he was worth far less of the time she had already wasted on him.

“Azazel was one of the highest ranked demons out there. Old. Older than me. One of the first. Not even Alastair could have done what he did.” Dean felt bile rise in his throat as the name brought with it fractured memories and screams of a long buried occurrence. “And it was a violation that he paid for with his life.”

“At my hand. You’re welcome, by the way.”

Tessa rolled her eyes. “Don’t pretend you killed Azazel for someone you couldn't even remember.”

“Then don’t pretend his death was any form of revenge for you.”

“Do the reasons for death matter as long as the one who harmed you pays?”

They often did this. A little verbal sparring, back and forth on any number of topics. He couldn't do this with Sam. His little brother's brain was all too quick to back up his argument with learnt facts that he claimed meant he was right. Dean hadn't had time to care about what a bunch of old dudes said.

What it _had_ done was cement his relationship with Tessa. They were the sort of friends who took no bullshit, called each other out when they were being idiots and yet had a softness surrounding their interactions. If he was being honest with himself, which he had to be these days, she was precisely what he needed.

Having taken a moment to think, he grinned and replied, “Absolutely. When the death of that person, or the punishment, is insufficient for the crimes committed against them. Or leads to some kind of shit like the Apocalypse.” A brief thought of Lucifer rising chilled him for a moment. His wings pulled inwards, blanketing him in comforting warmth.

Tessa remained silent. Another reason Dean was coming to value their friendship. She knew when to stop. Read it off his wings as easily as he used to read Sam. Knew when he needed a distraction. Like when he was about to fall apart from the mix of apprehension, terror, joy and longing.

Or pseudo-friendship. Because Tessa didn't really care. She was a reaper. And was just doing her job. He wasn't anything special to her. Just an assignment. A task given to her by Death. It wasn't her fault that the time he had now was working against him. No frantic pressure to save the world meant time to think on his past, shattering him into a thousand fragments that had been held together for so long by sheer force of will. Perhaps if he had had less crap piling up relentlessly with no time to deal with it he wouldn't be in this situation right now.

He probably would. He could fuck things up easily enough without assistance.

Dean spun round to check the glowing sigil on the wall. Reaper magic was new and strange, yet he picked it up more easily and fluidly than he had Latin or the blood-magic that he used regularly as a hunter. Who knew reapers had a whole new set of powers at their disposal? Access to sigils that could even summon angels.

He hadn't tried praying. Praying was for humans. And he didn't have a right to that title anymore. Maybe never had. Not with Hell singing in his blood.

“Who are you and why have you summoned me, reaper?”

Dean jumped and spun to face his friend. “Hey, Cas.”

His friend was standing there in the vessel of Jimmy Novak, but Dean could see his inner light. Cas' grace. Coiled tightly and packed away inside. But the wings. Indescribable. They were nothing like Dean’s own feathery ones. More abstract. Limbs of burning, love, noise and darkness.

“Dean?” Castiel's eyes hardened and Dean felt himself take a reflexive step backwards, wings snapping up to make him look bigger and more threatening. “Why are you not in Heaven?”

That was unexpected. “Dude! The first time you see me since I died taking down Abaddon and that’s what you have to say? I hated Heaven! Of course I was going to try any other option.”

Cas seemed taken aback.

Fuck it. If he was going to piss off an angel, he better not do it half-assed.

“Look, Cas. Death said Heaven didn't want me. Neither did Hell.” Castiel made an aborted noise in the back of his throat that Dean only picked up on due to his enhanced senses. “I know. Shocked me. I'm basically the ideal candidate. Purgatory or living it up as a spirit weren't options, and I didn't feel like exploding a bit of the galaxy. According to Death. So we worked out a few things and I'm a reaper now. Capisce?”

“Dean. You would have chosen annihilation over Heaven?” Ah shit. That was his gentle voice. Like he couldn't believe Dean would have done such a thing.

“Cas… Heaven wasn't me. Going round and round with your best memories? No choice? Nah. Not for me.” He left it unsaid that he wouldn't have deserved it. “Oblivion was looking pretty great.”

“You have no idea what you’re saying…”

“Cas. I chose this. If I went to Heaven or Hell, they were going to toss me back. It’s pretty great. Once I learn to control my wings I’ll be free.”

“And killing innocents? That is what you wish for?”

“Okay, okay. I know how it looks.” He raised his arms in a placating gesture. “But it’s not like that. Cas. I can actually help people. Kids get confused; people who don’t want to go? I can’t stop them dying. But I’ll be damned if anyone gets stuck in the Veil while I'm around.”

“You would choose this.” It wasn't a question. “Do you have any idea what your existence will be like? For the rest of eternity?”

There was the anger he was expecting. The air crackled and buzzed with power as Castiel's emotions bubbled up.

“Very few angels ever became reapers, Dean. And it drove many of them insane! You’re a human. Possibly the only human to qualify for this. You jumped in without thinking. Like the Mark, like your deal.” A crack of thunder shook the room, spurring Dean into action.

“Woah! Cas. Calm it.” He reached for the angel and was surprised when Cas turned away.

“Don’t Dean. Don’t _touch_ me. You’re. You’re an abomination. _Nothing_.”

Dean’s insides went cold.

“Hey. You said that about Sammy when you first met him. And now look at you guys.” he replied. His mouth was running on autopilot. He had been stupid to think that this wouldn't change things. That Castiel would still like him. Even after becoming non-human. He hadn't deserved it back when he was and he didn't deserve it now.

“You shouldn't have said that Castiel. You, of all people, should know to read the fine print. The being in question must have visited all four realms and spent time in the Veil. Naturally. Sure, we’re pushing the boundaries a little in Dean’s case. But he’s no different from any other creature of Death.” Tessa said. Her tone was reproachful at best.

Cas squinted, then tilted his head. “You’re right. I never understood why my brothers and sisters chose to turn away from my Father and bind themselves to Death. To choose destruction over creation. It has been over 3000 years since I lost someone I cared for in this manner.”

He didn't look at Dean. And Dean didn't miss the past tense in the sentence. His already aching wings were now wracked with sharp jolts of pain that he could barely prevent from being telegraphed to Tessa and Cas. The strain of hiding his emotions was taxing, yet somehow easier in Castiel's presence.

“As fun as this,” Dean waved his hand vaguely, “History lesson is, I gotta talk to Cas.”

“You summoned me, with ancient, powerful magic. To talk.” Castiel said, tone incredulous.

“Dude. I know. But there’s a lot of shit I never said before I died. And it's really starting to mess with me. So, if you could just park your feathered ass for a minute. I'd be really grateful.”

Castiel shifted uneasily, but lowered himself to the motel bed.

Dean took a deep, fortifying breath, and burst out. “I'm sorry for putting Sammy and you through the whole Gadreel, Mark of Cain thing. I thought I was doing the right thing. Instead, I ended up wasting your time and checking out when I should have fixed it. I ended up killing Kevin. Sorry for dying when you all still needed me to fight.

“I get that you’re both still pissed at me for all that. Just. I'm _okay_ now. I'm away from where I’ll screw up your lives, so don’t worry about me. I'm good.”

He raised his eyes to Castiel's shakily. “There’s a lot we never said. And so much shit happened over the years that I still don’t know whether to be pissed or happy. But I forgive you and Sam for anything that you think I hold over your heads. And just..." He throat was hurting. "Goodbye, Cas.”

Cas was about as wrecked as Dean had ever seen him. “Dean. If this is what you _truly_ want. If you seek happiness like this. Then I will not stand in your way. If you want my forgiveness, you have it. Though there is nothing to forgive. I spoke hastily. You are not, and have never been, nothing. Your worth is _immeasurable_. Choosing the path of free-will over a memory loop is something I should have expected from you. You might never come to realize it, but you don’t deserve what life handed you. Or what circumstances demanded you sacrificed. I wish you all the best, Dean." Castiel sighed and shifted awkwardly on the bed. "If you permit, I would like to see you sometime in the future.”

“Yeah. Sure, Cas. Tell Sam. Tell him. I know that we're not brothers. But. I'm sorry.” He choked out. This was a far cry from the rage and the pain he envisioned. He was hardly about to tell Cas that he should stay away for his own good. He should do. But he wouldn't.

“Of course. Goodbye, Dean.” The angel smiled, before he vanished with a flutter of wings.

And thus Dean was left standing in a motel room where nobody could see him, with aching wings and the sense that something, some weight, had been lifted from him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been awful with responding to comments, but they're greatly appreciated. So thanks to everyone who's left a comment or kudosed so far.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tessa and Dean talk a little about guilt and responsibility. Dean gets a new mission, but it's not one he wants to complete.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, again.

After Castiel, Tessa and Dean fell into an easy routine. Friendly camaraderie, followed by lessons and the occasional reaping. Nothing like Emma. It was mostly heart-attacks and confused old ladies who needed a little help crossing over. They didn't talk about how much Dean had blossomed (he actively rejected the term outside of his own head) since hashing a few things out with Castiel. If anything, the brief visit had proved that it wasn't the act of talking in itself that helped, exactly, whatever Sam liked to say. It was more the release of pent-up and repressed feelings that prevented his wings from telegraphing his every passing thought to the world.

He and Tessa settled into a quiet domesticity that Dean had been missing since he and Sam ceased to be brothers. The revelation that reapers were once angels, and that they had chosen to become creatures of death cemented their relationship in ways Dean hadn't thought would ever be possible. For starters, he asked her to groom his wings.

They’d been itchy for weeks, uncomfortable and losing their physical lustre, though they had lost none of their ethereal soul-shine. Tessa had once had a pair of her own sticking out of her back, a far stretch from his own feathered ones, but wings none-the-less. She's explained that her own were more abstract. Light and noise and intent, rather than his own feathered variety. It was enough common ground that he trusted her to have his back quite literally.

He’d approached her after he’d almost fled a simple reaping, his wings twitching so violently that they’d freaked out a poor sales-associate who’d died after slipping in the toilet. The guy almost decided to stay on Earth rather than risk being carried to Heaven by a rather unsteady Dean.

Tessa laughed when Dean explained his reasoning and agreed, but on the condition that they talked about themselves while they did it, rather than reapers and angels and how to control giant-ass wings that were linked to your soul. Rather than evading or lying or saying something stupid that would make his wings express their extreme displeasure with him, he grinned and agreed to it. It had been six months of almost constant companionship, with Tessa never once stepping over his boundaries. They shared a level of trust with each other; not to say they never argued or fought: they did. But they also didn't let wounds linger, or at least, waited until the other was ready before making up.

It had been so long since he trusted without reservation that he couldn't quite work out how to do it now that he wanted to. Grooming was the first step.

It started simply. They sat on the bed of an abandoned cabin in the woods in Maine, incorporeal and invisible to humans. Tessa sat slightly behind him, her human form far more suited to sorting out his mess of feathers than her true form. She gently pulled one of his giant wings across her lap and began carding her fingers through his feathers, starting from the center of his back and moving outwards and down.

The sheer number of feathers that fell out was embarrassing.

“Why didn't you say something sooner, Dean? This has to have been absolute hell for you,” Tessa commented, the concern in her tone mixing with the amusement she tried to project at him.

Dean sighed, tense back muscles shifting as he sought relief from the constant itch.

“Nah. Been to Hell. Took in the sights. Got a few souvenirs,” he joked. Buried was the screams and the loneliness and the pain. The never ending agony that burned and burned and shredded every part of him until there was nothing left but memories of Alastair.

They fell into silence, the itching in Dean’s wings becoming less and less prevalent as Tessa worked on them methodically.

“So, Tessa, have we got any more learning to do today, or are we just going to spend it making me look fancy?” he asked.

She shot him a look which clearly said he was walking on thin ice before answering.

“You’re pretty much set, as much as reaping goes. There’s not a lot more I can teach you,” she told him evenly.

“So you’re just hanging around baby-sitting and waiting until Daddy comes back to pick me up?” Dean said, shaking out a wing as he spoke.

“No, Dean. You may be efficient and have a basic grasp of reaping, but you’re still young, and definitely not ready to be on your own. That, and I'm here to help when your other abilities start presenting themselves,” Tessa smiled, tugging slightly harder than necessary on his feathers.

Dean let out a surprised yelp at the tingling sensation and tilted his wing slightly so Tessa could reach the undersides with more ease.

“What? So you’re here for the clean-up if I go supernova and start killing people by accident?” he said, alarmed.

“No. I'm here for support only. Like Death said, what you do with your growing abilities when you get them is your choice. Though he does ask you try and maintain some semblance of the Natural Order.”

Her words were scant comfort. Sure, he might be able to use whatever weird things he would be picking up to help, but it was more than likely he’d go off the reservation and have to be put down like a dangerous dog. As for the Natural Order, he’d seen what happened when he messed that up, and it was not something he’s do consciously.

“So, do I have any assignments?” he asked, brushing off his worries for now. “Or are we devoting a day to my personal hygiene?”

Tessa's sigh was barely audible, but Dean tallied it up as a point to him. “You do. You aren't going to like it, but I think you’ll want to do it. To be honest, it will be a miracle if you get these spirits to move on.”

That didn't sound good, at all.

“So what is it exactly, or do I just have to turn up and see for myself?” he questioned.

“I'm nearly done with, but I’ll explain as I finish up,” Tessa said. “The people you’re collecting today are victims of a sadistic serial killer. They were tortured to death.”

Dean stilled suddenly, a chill running up his spine. Tessa had been blunt and matter-of-fact. It had caught him off-guard. “And Death thinks _I'm_ the man for this one? Is he nuts?”

Dean practically felt Tessa roll her eyes from behind him. “The eccentricities of Death are not up for debate at this moment. And do not doubt yourself, Dean Winchester. These souls have been tortured to the point that they’d do anything to stop the pain. Anything, to make it smaller. Are you trying to tell me you can’t relate?”

“That’s the problem, Tessa, I relate too much,” he snapped. “You want me to go convince those poor bastards to move on, to _not_ take out all the anger and rage and hurt they've got on the world? I'm not exactly the poster boy for that, Tessa.”

“You don't have to do it, remember. It’s your choice which assignments you pick up, other reapers could step in. But I think you are the man for the job. Did torturing souls in Hell help you?” she asked bluntly.

Dean flinched back from her, drawing his wings around himself protectively. He closed his eyes at the onslaught of memories, torturing people, hurting them and ripping them apart. And liking it.

“You seriously want me to answer that?” he said, voice hoarse.

“If you want to,” Tessa shrugged, though her tone was apologetic.

“I liked it. I enjoyed dishing out some of the pain. It felt _good_. But it never changed anything. All the things I did… They were a cover, a way to channel what was done to me, the violations and the torture and everything else so I didn't shatter. It was easier than having to face myself. It didn't help. In the end it was just one more thing to add to the crap-heap, one more reason to hate myself afterwards. It’s unforgivable,” he explained, thoughts far away from Tessa. They rested in the pit, reliving some of Alastair's choice torture methods.

“You do know it wasn't your fault, right?” she asked, gently.

“Dude. I said yes, and then went and carved up people. I sold my soul in the first place. How is this _not_ my fault?” he told her, still nestled in his own feathers. Dean was slowly coming to consider them to be a place of safety for him.

“Well, generally the idea of torture is to get the person to do anything they want. That's kind of the point. It's an extreme form of coercion. True, the results aren't pretty, but it is hard to blame you for breaking, that's the whole point,” Tessa said. “As someone who's been through what these souls have, and seen it from the other side, you’re the ideal candidate for actually helping them.”

“You don’t have any other reapers who've been tortured, right?” Dean said, quietly. He didn't want to do it, but he would, if only for the innocent victims who needed a little more than a gentle word to help them move on. They didn't deserve to be trapped in this plane, waiting until they were slowly driven mad.

“If we did then we'd have asked them to complete this assignment. I am sorry, Dean.” Tessa was remorseful, but even she knew that Dean would say yes.

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose, settling down and offering his wings back to Tessa.

“This is going to really suck.”

“I know,” Tessa replied, easing some more loose feathers out of his wings.

“How many people are we talking about?”

“There’s three so far. Could be more by the time you get there.”

“Jesus.”

Dean found himself leaning into the soft tug of fingers through his feathers, the dull itch that had been bothering him replaced with the soothing comfort of another’s touch. He tried so had to squash that side of him, the part that sought out physical contact, the kind that didn't leave a bruise or a cut, but soothed and calmed him, but he never quite succeeded.

“Just so you know, I think this is a really stupid plan,” Dean said to Tessa. He didn't want to do it. At all.

There was a pull, however, something he’d only associated with hunting before, towards doing the mission. Helping those who needed it most no matter what cost to himself. The knowledge of having options, but only being able to choose one route. It was what had always separated him from Sam, and to some extent John. They chose to hunt for personal reasons, for vengeance, for themselves and for their redemption. Dean hunted to help people.

He wasn't smart, like Sam. He never got good grades or went to college. But this? This he could do. He amounted to so little that he had to help those who were worth more. By helping others, he contributed.

Some of that he knew was stupid. Logically, he could have done well at school if he’s ever had the time to study. Logically he knew he was'’t worthless, that he didn't have to define himself by other people. He just wasn't sure he knew how to start believing it, so he struggled on hurting himself because he would rather he got hurt than someone else.

His own ache, the pain of his sacrifices, which Sam had claimed were selfish, was nothing compared with what he felt when someone got hurt when he could have prevented it. Thus he went on, hurting himself and becoming more and more hardened to the world, scarred and damaged. Broken.

He didn't know how to stop.

“I agree with you,” Tessa said. “The plan is a stupid one, but you are someone who has survived torture. You've _healed_. You know how to get past it-”

“No I don’t,” Dean cut in. “I really don’t. When I sleep, I dream and it’s always of Alastair. Always. It’s him and the razor. Sometimes I'm the one holding it, but I always dream of Hell. I'm not over it, Tessa. I was barely given the opportunity to process it, let alone deal with it. Sure, I can fake it like a pro, pretend I'm fine, but I don’t think I'm strong enough for this mission, and I'm almost certain I’ll fail. I’ll do it anyway, though. Because it’s the only way I can live with myself.”

Tessa was wrong about that, that he had moved on. She was risking everything because she thought he was stronger than he was. He was weak.

Tessa’s hands still in his feathers, settling in the sensitive underside of his wings.

“We would never have asked you of this had we realized this was the case,” she said, fingers tightening minutely in his wings. “You are absolved of any duty you feel towards these souls. This job may be sacred, Dean, but we do not compromise ourselves in order to complete it.”

“And if they can’t move on, and people die because of it, then it’s my fault. How is that any better?” Dean snapped. His emotions were going haywire, snapping back and forth between terrified and determined, hesitant and angry.

Tessa tugged on his wings, forcing him to turn around so that they were sitting face to face on the bed-spread.

“So anyone who dies or is injured,” she started. “Anyone who you’re connected to, even distantly, if they get hurt, it’s _your_ fault?”

“Well, yeah. If I could have prevented it,” Dean said. He didn't like where this conversation was going. So many people tried to tell him he wasn't to blame for things, even when it was clear that he was.

“You do realize there’s a difference between taking responsibility for your own mistakes and taking responsibility for _everyone's_ mistakes,” Tessa told him gently.

“And there’s a difference between accidentally leaving a pack of smokes in the laundry and causing someone to die, no matter how indirectly,” he snapped at her. His mistakes and his actions had wider reaching consequences than Tessa seemed to want to talk about. 

“That's not what I mean, Dean. Is it the doctor’s fault if a patient dies when they were doing everything they could to prevent it?” Tessa asked.

“No. But-”

“Do you see yourself as a soldier?”

Dean blinked at the change of pace. He took a moment to think, and then replied, “I used to. When there were commands and targets. And for quite a while after that. But now? It’s not _like_ I'm a soldier. There’s no support structure. No comrades and sure as hell no orders. All of my decisions have weight and consequences, and I'm fighting alone in the dark. There’s no final mission, I’ll never be finished. Just endless battles. I don’t think there's a word for what hunters are.”

“So you _are_ like a doctor. But instead of patients and disease, you have victims and the supernatural. Sometimes things go wrong, but it doesn't mean you have to drag yourself down every time you make a bad decision. You learn from it, and move on.”

“Easier said than done,” Dean huffed. He didn't believe her for one moment.

“I know. Guilt is necessary, but only to a certain extent,” Tessa said, nudging his knee slightly with her own.

“You know, this doesn't change my decision. I'm still going after those folks,” Dean told Tessa seriously.

He needed to leave as soon as possible. Get away from everything, even if it was into a Hell on Earth. Without his guilt and the weight of his many mistakes, there was nothing. And he couldn't face that.

“If this is your informed decision, I'm not going to stop you.”

Dean's shoulders sagged in relief.

Tessa then stood, gathering Dean into a hug that he hesitantly returned, his wings coming up to circle around them both.

“I’ll be here when you get back,” she said, slipping him the names of the souls and their location. “Try to make it back in one piece.”

Dean flashed his most cocky grin her direction, withdrawing so he was ready to leave. “You know me. I’ll be fine,” he said, before reaching with his wings and pulling himself towards his new job.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm looking for a beta. For this and also my DCBB. So if anyone is available, I'd be very grateful.
> 
> Send me a message on tumblr, if you're interested.
> 
>  
> 
> [My tumblr.](http://deanburger.tumblr.com/)

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, I have only have a vague idea where I'm going with this. Updates are likely to be slightly sporadic.


End file.
